


Darkness on the Edge of Town

by NotWithoutHaste



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics), Super Sons (Comics), Superman - All Media Types, Teen Titans (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Batfam in passing, Damian is a salt king, Jondami, Like this is mostly Damian, M/M, Slow Burn, Violence, but its there, not super graphic now but we'll see, other characters to be added - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-21
Updated: 2017-07-21
Packaged: 2018-12-05 01:27:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11567445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotWithoutHaste/pseuds/NotWithoutHaste
Summary: Damian is separated from his family and left for dead when a group of roving bandits attack them and knock him out. The only reason he's alive? A boy named Jon from a nearby town who came to help when he heard the fight.When he wakes and realises his family is gone Damian has no choice but to set off into the Badlands find them.Or die trying.





	Darkness on the Edge of Town

"You're born with nothing  
And better off that way  
Soon as you've got something they send  
Someone to try and take it away"

-Bruce Springsteen, Something in the Night

* * *

 

A piercing light brought Damian out of an unconsciousness that he couldn’t remember entering. Everything felt wrong. His body was sluggish and aching, and his head felt like it’s insides had been pulled out shuffled around and then put back a millimetre out of place.

Damian blinks, one, twice, three times. He was still seeing spots.

When he tried to sit up his muscles protested so violently that he was forced to lie back down with a pained groan.

It was this groan that unblocked his ears which, between the screaming muscles and the throbbing in his skull, he hadn’t realised they were blocked to begin with. As Damians hearing returned a voice came into focus. It was gruff sounding as if each word was being dragged across gravel. ‘Lie back son, lie back.’

A hand with skin like the bark of an ancient tree grabbed onto his shoulder– a throb of pain– and pushed him back down onto the whatever it was he was laid out on. Damian tried to push the hand off but he couldn’t muster the energy to follow through with the action. The man looked Damian up and down, surveying him with a gaze that was lightning. 

He turned away from Damian and wondered across the room. Damian’s craned his neck- each vertebra cracking painfully- to follow the man’s trajectory across the room. The man’s age was written all over him. He moved in a shuffle around the room, his joints functioning about as well as an unoiled machine. He had a face like a map, sun dried skin pulled tight over gaunt angles so it looked like mounds and valleys were drawn into his features. Damian mused that the man looked as if he should have died a decade ago but was continuing to live through pure perseverance. 

The whole house looked as old the man. His oversized once-white-now-tan coat dragged across wooden floorboards throwing the thick layer of dust into the air so that it hanged illuminated in the air by what little sunlight that managed to penetrate the dirt covered windows. Everything in the house was worn to near death, the curtains were moth eaten and the mismatched furniture was scuffed and damaged. 

It all reeked of decay.

The man reached a battered side-table that was so chipped that it was more exposed wood than paint. A small array of medical instruments was laid out on the top. He picked up something sharp looking and began his shuffle back to where Damian was laid out. Damian took a sharp breath and his eyes widened. The man instructed him not to be alarmed which alarmed Damian further.

Damian tried to muster to force himself off of the couch, anywhere away from the crazy old man with the sharp object but his body protested to action. He looked down at himself, his shirt had been removed and his entire lower torso was wrapped in bandages. His arms from elbow to knuckle were the same. What flesh was exposed was bruised and brilliant array of blues and purples, with barely a bit of Damians natural tan visible. But none of this pain compared to the continued throbbing in his head, it was like flames were licking at his temples.

‘Who are you? What’ve you done to me?’ He demanded. The shouting made his head throb more.

‘Calm down son.’ The man said leaning of Damian in a manner that was not calming. ‘didn’ do nothin’ to you.’ Damian tried to swat the man away, but his arm didn’t cooperate, giving up before it reached its target. ‘I didn’ pull you apart, I’m just puttin’ you back together.’ The man hummed, while he used the medical implement to do something to Damian’s forehead.

Damian wasn’t sure what it was but it stung like hell. He yelled loudly and tried to move away once. His body finally cooperated and he began to roll off the couch. The man intercepted him and reset his position.

‘I’m goin’ to need you to calm down son.’ The man said. ‘Otherwise these stiches are goin’ sting like a fuckin’ bitch.’

Damian muttered that they already did. This drew out a single gruff laugh from the man. Once he was done with the stiches he helped Damian sit up, an action that took a half minute and a great amount of swearing to accomplish. The man began to wrap a bandage around his head. He introduced himself as Bartholomew “but everyone calls me ‘Bart’” Wolper, and asked for Damians name which the adolescent gave begrudgingly.

Bart began to go about other examinations. He shined a light in Damians eyes and the made Damian follow his finger at he moved it around. Then Bart went and began jabbing at Damians body, eliciting a string grunts and cries. 

‘What happened to me?’ Damian asked between prods.

‘Outskirts of town is where you got foun’ son, ‘ead to toe covered in blood.’

Damian’s face scrunched as he attempted to recollect the event that had brought him to end up lying on couch in a house being tended to by a stranger. His memory was a slurry of images and sounds. Slowly it came back. 

Bandits had come running over a crest in the road, their figures were cast as silhouettes by the low hanging directly behind them, firing guns down at them. He remembers the way their faces were painted with long shadows by the orange tongues of gunfire. The bullets kicked up dirt around them and his nostrils were immediately overwhelmed by the scent of gunpowder. He can’t remember retreating behind a rock nor when he unsheathed his sword, but he can recall the way his chest heaved through shotgun blast breathes. But it’s the feeling of his hands tightening around it’s hilt that is clearest. It brought him a moment of focus, the assault on his sense fade. Words become clear, his Father shouting commands at him and Dick giving his shoulder a quick squeeze-

‘Family. Where’s my family?’

Bart grunted noncommittally. Damian pressed further. 

The old man recounted that three nights ago some townsfolk had been in the Fresh-Spring Saloon when they’d heard the sound gunshots rattling over the hills from the main road that runs by the edge of town. They had rushed out into the night and set off toward where the noises were coming from. As they got closer the gunfire evolved into screaming. They didn’t sound like the mutant hounds that realm the hills at night the screams sounded been human. But then the screams too began to fade until the Badlands had been reclaimed by silence. 

The townsfolk arrived half a minute later to a horrifying scene. 

Dismembered bodies were cast across the road like lumps of raw meat, flowing with blood so freshly spilt that the tangy copper smell dominated the air. In a few hours, the mat-flies would be swarming. At the centre of this tapestry of destruction, lying in a pool of blood that was not his own, laid an unconscious Damian. He’d been beaten within an inch of his life but he was alive, the rise and fall of his chest could be clearly seen in the moonlight.

‘You did somethin’ bad to those thugs.’ Bart said.

Damian nodded. He recalled the way he and his family had rushed toward the thugs with weapons drawn. They’d begun to make quick work of them, his Father took six alone with his bare hands. Dick was easily fighting another three; ducking a weaving around enemy strikes before making swift strikes with his makeshift nightsticks. Steph had managed to steal one of their enemy’s staffs and was taking on another four thugs with easy. Even Tim, Damian would begrudgingly have admitted, was holding his own. When a second group had come over the ridge Jason had broken away from the fight to fire upon them with his pair of pistols.

Damian for his part was taking no prisoners, Father had taught them how to survive in the Badlands and mercy had no place. They had no need to kill but these people were scum in his eyes and not worth the air they breathed. He’d easily taken three apart with his sword, slicing off arms and then slashing their chests or decapitating them with a swift blow. 

Yet there more still, there must have been dozens, too many even for them. The fight was beginning to split into two smaller fights, Damian was in a smaller skirmish against half a dozen thugs whilst the rest of the family fought a much larger group. He’d tried to make his way back toward them, cutting down one, two, three, four, five thugs in quick succession. However last one struck him from behind, landing a heavy blow on his head that made his ears ring. 

He turned to face him only to receive another blow and then another. His fists were bricks. Damian tried to regain his baring’s but with one blow his vision doubled, with another he was winded, another blow and Damian was taken completely off his feet. The man had loomed over him, landing blow after blow onto Damians small body. He leered over Damian and spat on his face then raised his hands ready to land the deathblow. 

Damian seized this split second to muster all the energy he had grab his sword and ploughed it through his chest. The man’s body fell to the ground with the triumphant grin still on his stupid face.

Damian looked around, the street was empty. He attempted to walk up the street to where the others had probably gone but his body gave way and he collapsed onto the ground. What little energy he’d had left drained quickly and he slipped into unconsciousness. 

‘We weren’t sure if we shoulda’ been savin’ you.’ Bart said, drawing Damian out of his recollecting. ‘On account of our town not liking fightin’ types.’

Damian asked why they did and Bart explained that the townsfolk had debated the issue over his unconscious body, throwing words back and forth but reaching no consensus. Eventually one of them had just picked him up and carried him back.

‘And my family?’ Damian asked. ‘You didn’t say.’

Bart shrugged and gave him a helpless expression. ‘It was just you and the dead bandits, son.’

Damian nodded, his expression growing grim. ‘Who carried me back?’

‘Names Jon.’ Bart said. ‘Jon Kent. He was the first one to reach the scene and the one who carried you back.’

Damian nodded. He pondered a moment in silence.

‘Take me to him.’

At first Bart was relucent to let Damian get up but once he made it clear that he would go whether the old doctor assisted him or not the he conceded on the provision that Damian take it slow. The old man had shuffled off to another room to fetch Damian some spare clothes that he claimed, “might be in a size… suited to your stature”. 

Damian did not appreciate Barts comment about his height, he was well aware that he was short for a seventeen-year-old.

Bart returned a minute later with a pair of baggy black cargo pants to replace Damians bloodstained ones along with a wife beater that was a size too small and a bright red hoodie that was two sizes too big. He took the clothes without comment, and changed into them quickly.

‘My sword?’ Damian asked.

‘Son, the folk ‘round here are weary of you enough as is, you don’ need to be scarin’ them with tha’ big sharp-‘

‘Sword.’ Damian said, holding his hand out expectantly.

Bart sighed and shuffled off to another room and returned with the sword in its black sheath. Damian took it, unsheathed the blade, and inspected it closely. He ran his finger across it and then swung it through the air twice. Satisfied, Damian sheathed the blade with a single clean motion and then slung it over his shoulder. He turned back to Bart and informed him that he was ready to leave. Bart murmured something incomprehensible under his breath but led Damian to the door none the less. 

Arid heat and unrelenting sunlight assault Damian and Bart’s senses the moment they step out of the house. Their eyes adjust and a small settlement comes into view. It’s not a town- barely a village- just a collection of buildings; dozen and a half in total. They begin to walk down the small knoll overlooking the rest of the settlement upon which Barts house stands.

Bart attempts to support Damian but he gets shrugged off with a contemptuous ‘-tt-’. A moment later Damian stumbles and sprawls onto the dusty red ground. A rock bruises his left leg just beneath the knee and his sword digs in his back. Damian grumbles something inarticulate under his breath and Bart laughs, it’s rough sounding, coming out in short blasts. 

Bart offers to support Damian again. Damian picks up a stick near where he fell and uses it to prop himself up.

Bart doesn’t comment. Neither does Damian. They continue.

They spend a minute making their way down the knoll, Damian struggles to keep his feet on the fine red dirt, even with his makeshift walking stick. They eventually reach the bottom, Damian having worked up a sweat. They’re walking down the only road that runs through the settlement when Damian breaks the silence and askes. ‘What is the place?’

Bart begins to ramble, as old men are prone to do, explaining every facet of the town in more detail than Damian actually cares for. He explains that the settlement is called Kingsley and that it was a small quarry town that was established before the Fall of the Old World. The few residents who had not fled home during the Fall were protected from the gangs, mutants, and monsters that began to roam the world, Kingsley’s position in the valley made for a natural defence and the dynamite once used for quarrying now made perfect weapons. For the next three centuries the town had survived, and then when humanity began to rebuild and threats became contained, thrived as the need for building materials had seen the quarry, nicknamed ‘The Factory’, become profitable once more. 

‘Now that the Liberty Alliance ‘as begun to move through this area there’s more deman’ for our materials than ever.’ Bart said, concluding his explanation.

Damian looked around at the houses they were passing. They were squat dilapidated buildings, with flat terracotta roofs indicative of the old-world style, with so many makeshift repairs done that little of the original structures actually remained. To Damian they looked just like houses you would find in other towns around the Badlands, many of which- if there was truth in Bart’s claims about the prosperity to found in Kingsley- were far worse off. He asked Bart about this.

Bart snorted and said. ‘We’re simple folk, what we have does us well.’

‘-Tt-.’ Was Damians only response.

Bart had rambled so long that they had passed through most of the settlement and were coming up to three buildings that were departures from the decaying houses that made up most of the township. Before Damian could ask about them Bart had already launched into another long-winded explanation. 

The right-hand building- the one on the furthest edge of the town- was an old gas station that had been converted into a kind of office and shop through which official town business was conducted. Its sign bore the towns name in bright red lettering which was painted over its original title ‘Pit Stop’. The ‘o’ in ‘Stop’ was a bright yellow smiley face that maybe had once seemed inviting and friendly but after centuries of wear and tear it just looked weary.

The centre building was a two-story structure whose functions in the Old World were unclear. It looked like a picturesque house with a balcony running around the circumference of the ground floor, but the sign outside claimed it had once been something called a ‘Bed and Breakfast’. Bart confessed that he knew not what that was but informed Damian that now the building served as an office and lodge for Sheriff Lang and her deputies. One of the deputies currently sat out the front with a rifle in hand. He gave Damian a suspicious glare.

The left-hand building, behind which the sun was now setting, was the only one to have maintained is function in both the Old World and the current on. It was a saloon, it’s warm and inviting appearance amplified to the sunlight washing over it. As they approached loud yelling could be heard inside. 

One voice, malicious sounding, yelled ‘Just hand him over and no one gets hurt.’ 

Or no one gets hurt.”’ Another voice belonging to woman replied. ‘Give it a break, we don’t hand over children to thugs. We’re not like that here.’

Bart frowned as this and marched off toward the saloon in a hurry. Damian hobbled after him, trying his best to keep up.

They entered to a standoff. A quartet armed thugs in monochrome prison jumpsuits stood in opposition to a group of shotgun wielding townsfolk, headed by an unarmed, but fierce looking, woman.

The tension was palpable, like a string that was so taught that even the gentlest touch would snap it. Two sides faced off while the patrons sat around the room in a fearful silence, civilians caught in a crossfire that hadn’t yet happened. The patrons cowered in their seats every time one of the thugs waved their weapons in their direction.

Two thugs spun to face them the instant they hear the door. They looked Damian and Bart up and down, realisation dawning on their faces. They got the attention of their leader, a man with a face like rat, who turned, and upon recognising Damian’s face shouted something incomprehensible at him. It was like he’d wanted to say several things and his mind was either too angry or too small to pick just one so it had slammed them all together as they ran off his tongue.

Damian realised that the thugs were from the same gang who had accosted his family on the road three nights before. He immediately went for his sword and unsheathed it, his muscles screaming in pain but he ignored them instead focusing on the stature and positioning of the hostiles, assessing the most efficient way to defeat them. Before Damian could engage Bart had stepped in front of him, acting a barrier between the thugs and averting the violence, if only for a short time.

‘Step out of the way old man.’ Ratface drawled, pointing his gun. ‘We just want that boy, no need for you to die.’

‘Nobody is dying today.’ The matronly woman said calmly.

The thugs turned their weapons back to her. The townsfolk around her raised their weapons in response. The tension rose further, it was almost as tangible as the half-eaten meals arrayed on the table, abandoned the moment the thugs had shown up.

Damian assessed the shotgun bearing townsfolk. There were five in total, the matronly looking woman stood in the centre, her demeanour was stony, she gave the impression that a mountain would move before her. To the right were two men, both wearing deputy badges, but despite their position they seemed as fearful as the patrons around them. This unlike the copper haired woman on the right. Her demeanour was as cool as her blue eyes, wielding her shotgun with a certainty that was befitting of her Sheriffs badge.

However, it was the figure on the right that most fascinated Damian. It was a boy, Damian estimated no older than fourteen, maybe fifteen. He had a shock of messy dark hair and the awkward adolescent lankiness where he had gained an extra foot of height but his muscles had yet to fill in. But it was his energy that captivated him. The boy had an immense energy around him, he held his shotgun with a certainty that was not only indicative of his competence with the weapon but his conviction in his righteousness if he was forced to fight. 

Ratface demanded again that they hand Damian over. The proposition hung in the air, Damian could tell that the scared townsfolk were considering it. But before any of them could suggest they do it the matronly woman interjected, informing the thugs that ‘we here folks aren’t like that.’

Ratface nodded as if he had been expecting this response. ‘You wouldn’t even hand over a child that killed ten men without remorse?’ Asked the lead thug.

The woman’s expression was stone. ‘No.’

The Ratface snarled his expression becoming uglier, despite its inconceivability, and called the matronly woman a slur that was equal parts demeaning and vulgar. It evoked a fierce response from everyone in the saloon, the townsfolk both armed and spectating physically withdrew. Even the other thugs looked revolted. The fiercest response however came from the lean boy with the shock of dark hair. He leapt out from the group of townsfolk to jam his shotgun under Ratfaces chin.

The other thugs all turned their weapons to the boy. A collective gasp issued from the onlookers. Damian tightened his grip on his sword.

‘Jon! No!’ The Sheriff cried.

‘Son…’ Bart said.

‘Look here boys.’ Ratface cooed. ‘We’ve got ourselves a right old Fire-Hornet.’

Jon ignored Ratface’s comment, there was fire in his eyes. ‘Apologise.’ He said through bared teeth.

‘Think about what you’re doing kid.’ Ratface said.

‘Apologise.’ Jon shouted. His fingers tightened until they were white around the guns grip. ‘Or I’ll shoot you.’

The others all began to shout a variety of warnings and reprimands at Jon and his language, but Ratface raised his hand to stop them. He opened his mouth to speak, Jon pushed the Shotgun warningly. Ratface held up both of his hands defensively.

‘What’s your name?’ Ratface asked the matronly lady.

Her gaze darted from Jon to Ratface and then over to the Sheriff. The Sheriff nodded slowly, and the matronly lady returned her attention to Ratface. She informed him her name was Madge Kingsley. Her expression was still stoic but her voice cracked as she spoke her last name.

‘Madge-’ Ratface winced as Jon shoved the barrel of his shotgun hard against his chin. ‘Ms Kingsley.’ He corrected. A pause. Jon nodded and Ratface continued his reparation. ‘I’m sorry for any offence my words may have created.’

Ratface looked back down at Jon who, paused, nodded, lowered his shotgun and took a step back keeping it firmly trained firmly on Ratface’s chest. Ratface rubbed his neck where the barrel of the shotgun had been moments earlier with a grimace.

‘You’ve got three days to hand the kid over.’ He informed the room. ‘If he’s not in our possession by noon of the third day we’ll come and take him, and we’ll kill anyone who stands in our fucking way.’

The thugs began to back out, their weapons still trained on townsfolk. ‘Three days.’ Ratface informed the room as he left. ‘It’s him or you.’ 

He grinned manically at Damian as he walked past, baring all of his yellowed teeth. Damian said nothing, he just stared coldly and gripped his sword a little tighter. They held each other’s gazes until Bart stepped between them again and told them to get out immediately. Ratface informed them that they were, and they did. 

The door swung shut with a heavy thud behind them.

A collective breath was released upon their exit but the tension their presence had created did not dissipate. The prospect of their imminent return lingered in everyone’s thoughts. They were coming back, and when they did there would be blood. The townsfolk shifted their gazes to Damian. They didn’t say anything; the darkness of their expressions spoke for them.

‘Put away the sword, son.’ Bart murmured.

Damian did not. Bart placed a hand on his shoulder, Damian tensed.

‘Calm down boy.’ The Sheriff said. ‘We aren’t going to give ya up.’

Damian scanned their expressions. They were full of distrust and fear, but not callousness. He looked over his shoulder at Bart. The old man nodded. Damian nodded back and slowly sheathed his sword, his muscles groaning as their tension was released.

Madge then stepped forward, Jon and the Sheriff on either side. Her expression was as cold with Damian as it had been with the thugs.

‘Now that that’s that.’ She said. ‘I think you need to explain yourself.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everybody and welcome! I was recently introduced to the incredible story that is super sons and decided to write a story, which is what you just read the first chapter off!! I'm gonna try and update once a week, but I'm a Uni kiddo so I'm not gonna set that schedule in stone.
> 
> Kudos or comment (or both) if you are so inclined.
> 
> And, welcome aboard! See you next week (hopefully)


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